


Of Love and Drunken Words

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Willing Sherlock, drunk!John, handjobs, not dub con, repressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This was exactly the fifth time John had gone to the pub and returned drunk after Sherlock’s return."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Love and Drunken Words

**Author's Note:**

> First M rating fic I publish... Let me know what you think of it, and enjoy! Advices are SO welcome!

The smell of beer was strong, but Sherlock didn’t care. He closed his eyes as he ignored the taste in his mouth as well, focusing exclusively on the tongue forcing its way between his lips.

This was exactly the fifth time John had gone to the pub and returned drunk after Sherlock’s return.

The detective never tried to stop him, figuring that he had developed that habit to cope with his absence and apparent death, perhaps in search of occasional female company, but Mrs. Hudson had never saw him coming back with a woman, nor drunk.

John had started getting wasted the same evening of the day Sherlock chose to reappear, and that time he thought it would be alright. That maybe he had something he needed to say that he couldn’t without some alcohol in his system. This theory had been reinforced by the fact that, once back, John had sat on him.

Sherlock remembered clearly his own surprise at having one clinging John Watson all over himself, but he didn’t complain. If anything, he adjusted his position on his armchair and held him back, deliberately ignoring his small sobs and occasional whimpers. When the doctor woke up still in that position the following morning, Sherlock had explained he had been drunk when he had returned home, and John replied with a curt nod of his head.

Since then there had been an escalation in John’s actions. He started going to the pub considerably less, but every time he did he would return drunk and then assault Sherlock.

The second time John had kissed him awake while he was resting on the couch; the third John had started groping him, and by the fourth he started slipping his hands under Sherlock’s clothes, all of this without the detective protesting. They both pretended nothing ever happened.

In fact, this was a perfect solution for Sherlock: he wouldn’t be too much of a burden in John’s life, not preventing him from getting married or having the happy life he truly deserved, yet he got to have him whenever the doctor wanted him to be his. It made Sherlock feel complete, being with John, even though he could sense a pang of reason repressed in the back of his head telling him that this was wrong, that he was taking advantage of John.

This time, as John’s hand flew to undo the buttons of his shirt, angrily pulling its hems apart when his drunken fingers failed in their simple task, was no exception.

_Stop this, stop him now, is no good._

Sherlock ignored the voice as he pulled John’s lips closer to his own, sucking on them and eliciting a stifled moan from the doctor. His hands moved to caress his chest, but they were soon pinned on the wall behind his back. He didn’t try to move them, and left the control of the situation to the other man. Soon John’s fingers were touching bare pale skin and sending a waterfall of shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

The kiss broke and John eyes seemed to stare out of focus at Sherlock’s chest for a moment, before he managed to snap out of his trance to press his lips against the side of the detective’s throat, his free hand grabbing his hair tightly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on breathing normally and making no sound, afraid John might want to stop otherwise. But when a vicious nip to the skin on his collarbone caused him to gasp, Sherlock felt thin lips curve against his skin before moving along his sternum.

As John’s grasp weakened, Sherlock managed to move his right hand to rest it behind John’s head and stroke his hair gently, until he felt a hot tongue leaving wet trails on his pectorals before probing at his left nipple. Sherlock gasped again when John’s teeth started teasing the sensitive flesh, his hands leaving Sherlock’s wrists to pull further apart the hems of his jacket and shirt, travelling then along his sides as the clothes fell down his arms.

When John’s mouth left Sherlock’s skin, his thumbs sneaked in his trousers, caressing his prominent hipbones. They panted in silence for a moment before John spoke, lowly, almost a growl beside Sherlock’s ear. “I want you.”

-

The first time it happened, John had discarded it as normal. Sherlock had came back in his life after more than a year of thinking him dead, and he couldn’t help but go and drink on it to calm himself down and accept the idea that he had lied for so long and was now back.

Sherlock was in his armchair when he returned home, and suddenly it was like a jump back in time, and everything was normal again. Except the feeling threatening to burst into John’s chest, the sheer need to touch Sherlock, make sure he was real, be close to him.

It was quite a normal feeling, wasn’t it? Of course, if John hadn’t been rather tipsy he would have never done what he did. Sitting in your just-back-from-the-dead best friend’s lap is not the most normal thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.

John had approached Sherlock and decided to ignore whatever he might have wanted to say, nesting himself comfortably against his chest. He felt so warm and alive it made him want to cry, and he was sure he did just so. The next morning though, when he woke up still in that position, Sherlock didn’t mention it and John thought the situation would fall into a mutual silence.

That until it happened again. He got home to a napping Sherlock on the couch, his limbs spread on all its length, toes curling in his sleep and shoulders rolling, his tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. John had stared for various moments before approaching the other, leaning down and kissing him. Just a peck, he had told to himself, but soon Sherlock was awake against him. Just until he pushes me away, he then said, but Sherlock never did. Once again, the next morning nothing was said. He felt disappointed, for some reason.

John realised he might have had a problem the third time he felt that need of closeness with Sherlock, and once again forced him down on the couch, his hands feeling every curve of the detective’s body through his house robes. Fourth time, the clothes were bypassed and the feeling of smooth skin under his fingertips had John’s head spinning.

This happened every time he went out to drink, and although he was aware of being assuming less and less alcohol every time, it still was easier to blame it on that. He had no idea why Sherlock didn’t stop him, and he told himself this was a sort of experiment, to see how far he could push things before getting punched in the face.

But when he came back home and found Sherlock standing up in the middle of the room, as if welcoming him back, he decided he didn’t care about experiments or anything else. The look in those clear eyes was enough. Longing, wondering, perhaps a bit scared of what might happen next; Sherlock reminded him of a lost child watching a stranger offering his help, unsure about what to do.

But John knew. He walked to Sherlock and pushed him back to the wall, staring up at him as if he was the most beautiful thing he would ever see. Which was probably true. He watched those lips mouth a word, a syllable: “John.”

 It was all it took. John leaned up on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock, fingers gripping his hair tightly and lips moving frantically against Sherlock’s, feeling the other’s hands on his shoulders and expecting to be, this time, shoved away as his hands fled to the buttons of his shirt, so infuriatingly tight that he gave up trying to undo them after a moment, opting to tear them away.

Instead, Sherlock pulled him closer and sucked on his bottom lip, eliciting a moan John tried uselessly to stifle. When he felt Sherlock’s hands on his chest he thought this was the moment he would be pushed away and instead pinned them against the wall behind the taller man, pulling at his hair to keep their lips glued together. Sherlock was strong: he could have fought him easily if he had wanted him to stop.

Then John withdrew and he stared at the purple silk still covering what he really wanted: he needed, simply needed the touch of warm, alive skin under his own, when he ran his fingers over his chest and stomach; he needed to feel Sherlock’s heart beating against his lips, when he kissed and nipped his neck, wondering how long it would take to mark that white flesh, and just how many delicious sounds he could actually obtain with simple bites. He smiled at the thought of being able to experiment, sliding down along Sherlock’s chest.

As he lowered himself the kisses gave way to licks and nips all over Sherlock’s skin, his lips tightening around the hard flesh he found on his way down his body, grazing it with his teeth. John vaguely registered that his grasp over his thin wrists had weakened, because now there were long fingers stroking his hair lovely, and so he decided to give it up entirely to pull at Sherlock’s shirt and jacket, starting to slide them down his shoulders before caressing his sides.

John shivered at the thought of the warm, smooth marble he was touching with his fingertips, the sensation of Sherlock’s muscles quivering gently under his hands almost too good to be real. He moved his hands up and down slowly, before letting his thumbs draw small circles over his hipbones, sneaking inside the waistband of his slacks.

There was a moment of silence whilst, John remembered, only their breathing was audible, before he managed to say the words that had been planted in his mind for weeks, practically growling them against Sherlock’s ear. “I want you.”

-

Few stumbling minutes later they had managed to reach the bedroom, Sherlock’s upper clothes shred on the way along with both their shoes and John’s coat, his jumper already lifted to discover his stomach, but since none of them wished to break the kiss they were sharing they decided to wait the right moment, which appeared to be when Sherlock fell backwards on the bed, dragging with him the other man’s jumper.

John had chuckled as he climbed the bed, crawling on an equally snickering Sherlock. They laughed together for a moment, with their mouths first and their eyes then, before they returned to their previous occupation, John’s lips descending to cover Sherlock’s which met them halfway. The heated moment seemed to subdue a little, though, and this kiss was more gentle and careful, more of a study in tongues, a savouring in one another.

Sherlock’s hands hesitantly rose to rest on the first few buttons of John’s shirt, nimble fingers undoing them with ease though both could sense certain nervousness. The caresses resuming on Sherlock’s sides didn’t help his trembling, if anything accentuating it. But John didn’t care, occupied as he was in undoing the detective’s belt and trousers.

Slowly the kiss regained its fervour, with mouths sucking on tongues and teeth grazing on lips, moans and other pleasured sounds spilling in the air like there was no tomorrow.

When they unlocked from each other to breathe hard, John smiled down at Sherlock, who returned with a sort of dreamy haze in his eyes.

“Tomorrow,” John said huskily, lowering Sherlock’s trousers and helping him with his own, “Tomorrow don’t you dare let me forget of this.”

Sherlock had opened his mouth to talk, but John shushed him with another kiss, attacking already swollen lips with the clear intent of leaving visible marks to be seen the following day. As the detective moaned and writhed under him, John lifted his hips to remove his pants, chucking them on the floor.

His own encountered the same fate as Sherlock’s long fingers hooked in the waistband of his trousers, lowering both them and the garment underneath with one movement. John gasped when he felt these same fingers wrap around his erection without the hesitation they showed when undoing his shirt’s buttons, moving his hand to imitate Sherlock’s ministrations, feeling him groan against his lips.

As they thrust their hips in each other’s grasp, moaning into each other’s mouths and calling each other’s name, John’s free hand moved to Sherlock’s side to hold him in place, wanting to be the one to pleasure him, while Sherlock’s hand moved to twine in John’s short hair as if to prevent him from going away. As if he’d want to go anywhere.

Small jolts of electric pleasure ran through their bodies, both minds clouded by the thought of having one another for the first time. They both hoped it wouldn’t be the last, John determined to repeat the experience and Sherlock determined to be out of John’s life as much as he could.

But for the moment the hearts hammering in their chests and the sensations they were presenting each other with were enough, and everything else was soon forgotten in the basic dance of pleasure and instinct, of love and flesh, of pressure and skin.

They came apart in each other’s arms, and they both collapsed thinking that this would fuel enough happiness for a life time, and that at the same time they would never be happy again without the other.

-

When John woke up he didn’t immediately open his eyes. He felt a circle around his dizzy head and had the memory of something beautiful involving Sherlock, and Sherlock’s body beneath his own, and... God.

He rolled over to touch the spot the detective should be lying on, and jolted in a sitting position when he found it empty and cold. Cursing under his breath, John stumbled on his feet as he hurried to put on his pyjamas, forgotten under his pillow the night before, and rushed out of the door to look for Sherlock.

Upon entering the kitchen, John sighed in relief at finding him there, back turned to the door.

“Sherlock,” he called with a smile, already approaching the detective to hug him from behind.

“John,” the prompt reply. “The woman you brought back yesterday left without leaving a name. Sorry about that, you seemed to have a lot of fun.”

His tone was cold, and John frowned. He had been sure it was Sherlock, not any woman, the one in bed with him that night.

“Sherlock...” he started again, but the detective interrupted him turning around and shoving a mug of hot tea in his hands.

“Here, for the hangover. It helps, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked with a small smile, and there was something there... Something innocent like and possibly shy.

John looked at the mug and then at the taller man, who seemed to blush ever so slightly under his gaze, before setting the tea on the kitchen table and taking a step towards Sherlock. He tried to back off, but his rear found the counter and stopped there. Sherlock’s fingers tapped nervously on the wooden surface, but he tried to hold John’s stare.

Without saying a word, John’s hands reached for the hem of his dressing gown, the collar ridiculously pulled up against his neck, pulling the fabric aside to reveal his bare chest: everywhere on Sherlock’s pale skin were blossoming red love bites that caused John to smile, and Sherlock to blush. Apparently it was very easy to mark that beautiful skin.

“So, mind telling me why you spent the last month denying everything that happened?” John asked, amused.

“You denied that, too!” Sherlock snapped back, which only made John more amused.

“Yes, because you never said anything.”

“Because you were drunk.”

“But you never pushed me away or asked me not to drink.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed and he gulped, looking at his feet. He seemed to think for a moment, before he sighed.

“It’s that... I don’t deserve you. No, let me finish,” he said when John tried to protest, resting his hands on the doctor’s shoulders. “I don’t want you to be trapped here with me all your life, not when you could have a family and a better job, not when you should have so much better...” at this point John silenced him with a kiss, putting his hands on Sherlock’s waist to pull him closer.

“I don’t deserve better. You are already the best I could ask for, the best I could wish.” he said truthfully, causing Sherlock to flush some more.

“But you should...”

“Let me decide what’s better for me, mh?” John asked with a gentle smile, leaning in again on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock’s nose.

The detective looked in his eyes for a long moment before nodding and returning his smile, wrapping his arms around his shoulders to pull him in for a brief kiss and a tight hug.

Nobody said what didn’t need saying, John didn’t drink anymore and Sherlock didn’t try to convince him of how many other things he could have. Why should he, when _he_ could have John?

**Author's Note:**

> LALALALA I CAN'T WRITE PORN LALALALA I SUCK AT IT
> 
> Please, consider buying me a coffee on [my ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/stravaganza)! I'd really appreciate your support!


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